


Sacrilege

by chachamaru770



Category: The Idiot - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: Short One Shot, and, i love her ok, just nastya musing about her past and jesus and shit like that, like super duper short, ment of past rape, nastasya was not a wasted life and didn't deserve anything she got in her life, this is also my first work lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 11:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11440167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chachamaru770/pseuds/chachamaru770
Summary: Over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour just taken from the cross.The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogozhin suddenly stopped underneath the picture. […]"I like looking at that picture," muttered Rogozhin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question."That picture! That picture!" cried Myshkin, struck by a sudden idea. "Why, a man's faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!""So it is!" said Rogozhin, unexpectedly. (2.4.1-10)





	Sacrilege

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on the painting The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb, which is mentioned several times in the book. Look at it here: http://www.abcgallery.com/H/holbein/holbein8.html or you wont have any idea what's happening  
> Was inspired by Shmoop's idea of the painting being a 'litmus test' for people's religious devotion and, by proxy, morality. It's mentioned here: http://www.shmoop.com/the-idiot-dostoevsky/holbein-christ-tomb-painting-symbol.html

7/8/17

_Over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour just taken from the cross._

_The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogozhin suddenly stopped underneath the picture. […]_

_"I like looking at that picture," muttered Rogozhin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question._

_"That picture! That picture!" cried Myshkin, struck by a sudden idea. "Why, a man's faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!"_

_"So it is!" said Rogozhin, unexpectedly._ (2.4.1-10)          

                                                                                                                     

“So it is, indeed,” Nastasya mused to herself quietly as the men passed through the doorway. She was alone with Him now. She lay on a sofa, mimicking His position, and gazed at the painting with her cheek against the soft cushions. Her finger extended towards the floor, and her feet fell apart.

               

How she wished her chest would lie as still as His did now!

               

Sacrilege; what a naïve concept. So this is what makes men lose their faith, become like mindless beasts that trudge through fields ignorant to the beauty in the shape of His grass, that sleep beneath His heaven with their eyes happily towards the mud?

               

Her white teeth pinched her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Had Totsky seen such a painting? Was it hidden in one of the countless books in his library? Was its imagery disguised in floral wallpaper? Had He lain beside her on those once-white sheets? She bit down harder, and maintained a stoic expression as a thin rivulet of blood trickled down her cheek.

               

No. Totsky was a collector of a different sort of art. Her now-crimson lips suddenly spread into a wicked smile that stopped just beneath her eyes.  _She_ was the one who had laid there, mouth agape, eyes unseeing, for so many years. Was she his religion, or his sacrilege? Was a man like _him_  capable of understanding the difference?

 

Perhaps there was none at all.

 

Swiping her gloved hand across her chin, she rose from the seat and walked towards the doorway. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulder as she cocked her head to the side and let her gaze pass slowly from His hair to toes. She noted every shadow cast across his gaunt body; no change in hue—no matter how slight—escaped her focus. As she did, she couldn’t help but rise to her tip-toes in an effort to get a closer look. Her brow furrowed in frustration; the closer she got, the more blurred her vision was. Her smile now spread to her eyes, as bitter tears slid slowly down her cheeks to mingle with the blood.

This painting represented neither religion nor sacrilege; it was not moral or immoral. In it Nastasya saw only a victim of circumstance, a person beloved and betrayed. There was beauty in such a conclusion, but not for supernatural reasons—for its humanity.

Nastasya Fillipovna wiped her face with her once-pearly gloves and tucked them in her handbag. Her grin returned, unscathed, with its usual air of sardonicism. As she walked determinedly through the doorway, however, her eyes betrayed a note of mourning.

               

                Whether it was for the man in the painting, or the woman beneath it, none could discern.


End file.
